


All The Stars Burning Bright (Losing Their Light)

by AuroraKant



Series: A Mirror Full Of Demons [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (Mirror Universe has a name now), Alternate Universe, Angst, Black Mask!Jason, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne's A+ Parenting, Bruce visits another Dimension, Damian Wayne is the Demon's Head, Dimension Travel, Earth 49311, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jason Todd is the Red Mask, Joker Junior!Tim, LoA!Damian, Talon!Dick, Tim Drake is Joker Junior, dick grayson is talon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: Bruce hadn't expected to wake up again, after he jumped in front of a blaster directed at Red Robin.He certainly hadn't expected to wake up in a different universe in which Batman had never taken the boys in. Without his presence to open up a home a gallery of Rogues had taken his kids in and Bruce didn't know if he was ready to confront them. But life rarely waited for one to be ready.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Series: A Mirror Full Of Demons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679320
Comments: 33
Kudos: 319





	All The Stars Burning Bright (Losing Their Light)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Guess who spent the last four days obsessively writing this thing? Yes! Me!  
> Thanks to my beautiful girlfriend for proofreading this and I hope you all have fun with this!  
> Kudos, Comments, and Bookmarks are greatly appreciated! <3

Bruce woke up.

That alone was weird, the last thing he remembered, after all, was jumping in front of a blaster that had been directed at Red Robin. What was even weirder, however, was the fact that he was currently in his bed in Wayne Manor. And that there were no injuries. At least none he could feel in his current position.

Instead he felt warm, well-fed and well rested. This was what really clued him in: It had been years since he woke up and felt actually good. He had been Batman for too long. Normal mornings for Bruce Wayne included aching bones and a constant drumming in his head from far too little sleep. Most of the time the pain from recent and healing battle wounds completed the symphony of aches that told him that sleep would no longer be an option.

Not now, however. Now the sun was the one waking him up, tickling his nose with promises of a for once beautiful day in Gotham. Nothing hurt – or the pain was subdued in a manner that was foreign to Bruce. It was… weird.

His need to investigate pushed him out of bed in a matter of seconds and when his curious gaze searched for his favorite robe to put on, he finally – _finally_ – realized that his current energy wasn’t the only thing that was off. His robe was hanging on its usual place on the bathroom door, but it was black instead of blue. The picture of his parents was on the left nightstand and not on the right one where it should be. The picture of the kids that Dick had gifted him was nowhere to be seen. The curtains were drawn open, even though Bruce was sure that Alfred always closed them after cleaning in here.

Whatever drowsiness he might have felt after waking up so well rested finally left him. Something was wrong, very wrong and it was probably connected to the blaster that had knocked him out and landed him here. The possibility of an Alternative Universe was likely. That would at least explain the diminutive differences Bruce had already noticed. That and the enemy they had been fighting was involved in strange disappearances. The multiverse crept up on them more and more often these days, it wouldn’t be too strange for a Gotham Rogue to dabble in universe hopping.

A look in the mirror told Bruce that this version of him was probably still Batman. The number of scars would at least speak in favor of that theory, even if there were less than what he was used to. The fact that this was not his body, on the other hand, was concerning. The age seemed to be the same, maybe slightly older, but there were other things that made it obvious that this body might be Bruce but not _Bruce_. The laugh lines Bruce was so weirdly proud of were no longer there. Neither was the scar on his chin he got when he tried to teach Jason how to ride a bike. There wasn’t any sign of the Joker on his body that was younger than ten years and the gash on his hip from the last battle with the Court of Owls was also missing.

This Bruce was a fighter, he could see that much in the small scars all over the body, feel it in the strength that these muscles held, but he had not been tortured in the same way ~~that~~ Bruce had been. But that wasn’t the only thing. Bruce also feared that this version of himself never learned the joys of parenthood the same way he had.

He was cautious when he threw on the robe and made his way into the Manor. Normally his first stop would be the Batcave but the state of his body told him that he would not have to fear meeting the other Bruce. He might find Alfred, however. Bruce couldn’t imagine a world in which the butler wasn’t fighting besides Batman even though he knew they existed.

But the Manor was silent.

No one else was running in these halls. There were no pictures of proud adoptees and wild birthday parties, there was no laughter and yelling. There were only the sounds of an old house left alone to watch over a city and its masters. He could hear the floor creaking when he stepped on the wrong floorboard and the grand staircase hadn’t been polished in years. The knowledge that he wouldn’t find Alfred in these halls settled like lead in his stomach. He had to be sure, though:

“Alfred? Hello? Anyone here?”

Nothing. Nobody answered him. Well, it seemed like it was time to explore the Batcave. Bruce turned around, making his way towards the one place he could always count on to be the same in every universe, when he noticed something small: The chandelier was the same one as the one hanging in his Manor back home. The chandelier they had to put up after Dick destroyed the first one shortly after he moved in. Maybe there was hope after all.

The Cave Entrance was the same, the date on the clock branded into his memory by trauma, but the Cave itself was missing so much: No giant penny, no dinosaur, no playing card. Instead there were rows and rows of weapons and gadgets, a garage even larger than the one back home, and the Bat-computer at the center of the space. Bruce feared that this Batman was even more alone than he himself was. Especially after his eyes found the display of Batman costumes, missing any other kind of gear. No Robin. No Nightwing. No Batgirl. No Red Robin. No Black Bat. No Spoiler. Just Batman.

What a sad world to live in.

Staring too long at the non-existing displays made Bruce nervous, teasing him with a world so unlike and yet so close to his. He didn’t want this to be the reality he got caught up in, but there was a very real chance that he would have ended up like this hadn’t it been for the tragedy at the circus and the despair in a pair of blue eyes. So instead he decided to make fast work with the computer.

It wasn’t easy to get access; the codes different than the ones he knew and the encryption even harder to crack than the one on the secret files of the JL but at the end of the day Bruce knew himself and he knew how to enable access to his own data.

He instantly wished he didn’t.

The information presenting himself was sickening. And yet he couldn’t stop staring. The other Bruce had been working on updating criminal files before going to bed, before getting switched. And Bruce knew that these universes existed, he knew that he wasn’t enough to save all of his children in all of the worlds, but it still hurt to see that this was one of them. That the Bruce Wayne of this universe hadn’t been able to save Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian.

The files that stared back at him discussed those four – and Bruce was afraid of digging deeper, of figuring out what Cass, Barbara, or even Steph had been doing. If they were also lost. He would do it, of course he would spend hours on his computer figuring out who was where and what was going on. But he would start with trying to understand what the screen in front of him was telling him.

The shocking thing was how much they looked like his children in the mug shots that were attached to every file. And how incredibly different they were at the same time.

Dick… Dick looked nothing like himself and yet it was his son – younger than he was in Bruce’s world – staring back at him, asking him for money so he could buy a new motorcycle. The young man in the picture had washed out white skin, black veins, a golden tint in his eyes and every bit the lost expression of a victim of the Courts. And one look into the detailed information next to the picture verified just that:

_Richard “Dick” John Grayson aka Talon aka King of the Owls; current status: Undead; Position: New Grandmaster of the CoO after staging an uprising with his fellow Talons; Crimes:-_

Bruce chose not to read any further. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly what kind of crime the Court liked to commit. Even his surprise at his son’s high rank couldn’t force him to confront the fact that his oldest had killed. That his oldest was dead. That he would stay so until someone finally took mercy on him and ended him permanently.

Not that any of the others were any better.

The red skull mask covering Jason’s face made it easy to guess which Gotham criminal had gotten his hands on the boy. And yes, the files only said what Bruce had already feared: Orphaned and on the streets Black Mask had taken one good look at the clever and impressionable boy and taken him in. What followed after was probably a horror story Bruce couldn’t even begin to grasp. It ended like this: Jason dying on an operation he carried out for Black Mask only to come back, kill Roman and take over as a more cruelly controlled version of the same man he had replaced. In a way it was a similar story than the story of the Jason Todd Bruce knew, just a bit to the left, a bit more screwed up. It hurt nonetheless to know that Jason wasn’t happier, that this kid had never returned to the light.

Really surprising – really sending ice down his veins – was the next file however:

_Timothy “Tim” Jackson Drake aka Joker Junior aka The Laughing Doctor._

Bruce couldn’t tell if his heart was beating faster or if his breathing had stopped but the picture of Tim with a surgically enhanced grin, white face paint and complete insanity in his eyes made his brain give up the last bit of hope regarding the state of this world. Bruce could understand Jason, he knew of the threat on Dick’s life, but the Joker vandalizing Tim, turning him into a being of chaos and pain and mayhem, was so new, so shocking, Bruce was unable to process it. It hurt. It hurt like that day – these years – had hurt when Bruce realized that Jason was dead. Would probably stay so. Killed by the Joker. Bruce wanted to kill that clown, had wanted to do so for years, had almost succeeded, and not for the first time that urge came back. But when his eyes skimmed the file once again, they found that Tim had been faster, killing the Joker and Harley Quinn in an explosion big enough to dent Gotham Harbor.

Something was very wrong in this world; something didn’t fit, and this feeling of wrongness only intensified when Bruce finally managed to dislodge his eyes from Tim’s and instead directed them at the last picture of the lot: Damian’s. The boy was no longer really a boy in it – none of the others were either, but they would always stay so in Bruce’s mind – he had matured beyond the age he currently inhabited at home. He had to be 16 or 17, wearing the gown of the Demon’s Head. His eyes were no longer the light green of a child growing up but the intense one of the Lazarus Pit, drenched in an insanity that came from being killed and brought back until the last sane thought has been destroyed. These eyes were the eyes of Ra’s al’Ghul. His child, bearing the most prominent mark of his abuser.

No, Bruce couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t stare at these depressing faces, thinking about everything he did wrong, every drama recital or science fair he missed, every lost opportunity and chance he had let go by out of pride. He closed the tab.

There were so many other things he could research, and he did just that. Other Bruce was part of the Justice League, not a founding member but a close second. Batman was a celebrated hero, if slightly darker without a Robin by his side, and Bruce Wayne still a media favorite, but with the same bachelor lifestyle Bruce himself had abstained from after adopting his first child.

It was weird to look at – a fun house mirror that changed him into something he didn’t want to recognize but still did. There were tabloids over tabloids exploring his sex life, and over a hundred news paper articles depicting the excessive force of Batman. The man still didn’t kill, and victims of crime claimed him to be the reason they were still alive, but Bruce couldn’t shake this uncomfortable feeling that overcame him thanks to this constant reminder of what could have been.

And at the end it always circled back to his kids: Those four were the main rogues of this Batman’s Rogue Gallery. Poison Ivy had left the town after Harley died, Killer Croc worked in a law firm, the Riddler rarely got out of Arkham, and Clayface had vanished over a decade ago. The Penguin and Catwoman seemed to be the only ones still standing tall besides the force that these four presented. Bruce had always known, of course, that each and every one of his children would be awfully dangerous should they ever decide to lead a life of crime, but it was something else entirely to see it played out in front of him like this.

The girls on the other hand seemed to be doing fine – or whatever this worlds equivalent was. Cassandra and Stephanie saved the city together by Batman’s side, as Black Bat and Spoiler. The public loved them, and Bruce couldn’t deny their appeal: They were young and without the problematic burden the Batman carried. Batman still didn’t trust them however: They weren’t prone to his secret identity and operated separately more often than not. This Bruce hadn’t invited them into his life. Not yet, at least.

Barbara was a different story. The Barbara Gordon Bruce found was working at a bookshop in Upper Gotham and had nothing to do with crime fighting whatsoever. There was only a handful of articles about her online and they told the story of an aspiring young police officer who got shot, lost the function of her legs, and decided to work in a small business while organizing charities and protests for those who couldn’t. But nothing in Other Bruce’s data or online indicated that she was anything else, anything more.

Which made it weird that there was still an Oracle. He had found contact information for them in a folder titled “Allies” together with the call signs of the Justice League. But Other Bruce didn’t seem to be aware of who was behind the moniker. Interesting.

But still there were so many other questions that Bruce couldn’t answer: Where was Alfred? What had happened to the chandelier? How had Tim met his fate? Who had raised Damian? Why were the girls associated with Batman but not present in the Cave?

All these questions found no answer anywhere in the Bat-computer and Bruce was weirdly unsettled by this. He wrote down everything, he was immaculate. Other Bruce apparently wasn’t. Or not about these things. Maybe that was the mystery Bruce was forced to figure out before he would be able to return. At this point Bruce was pretty sure that the blaster that transported him here had been magical in nature. Body switches on the basis of quantum physics rarely worked like this – there were more portals involved.

If solving the problem in front of him didn’t work, Bruce would have to ask the Justice League for help in getting him back and he would gladly save that one as a last option. Hal Jorden always looked way too smug when Bruce needed to ask for help.

Instead he did what he did best: Investigative work. He was the world’s greatest detective after all, and it was time he used his deductive skills to get out of here and back into a world in which everything made sense.

But before he could get to work, an alert popped up on the screen in front of him: MEETING RM, JJ, T, DH – Barber’s Feast Bar – 9 PM. It wasn’t hard to see just what that message wanted to tell him: There would be a meeting between all four of his sons. This was an opportunity far too great to pass up on. Bruce needed to know why they were working together, what was going on. It was like an itch under his skin, telling him to investigate, telling him to let Batman take over and to let Bruce step back. He complied.

Batman needed only a couple of keystrokes to verify that Matches Malone was a figure of Gotham’s underworld here too and after searching through one traffic camera after the other he could tell that Barber’s Feast Bar had no easy roof access nor windows that could be used by the Batman. He would have to go in as Matches.

After coming to this conclusion Batman was ready. The day had aged from a lazy morning into a hazy afternoon and the mini fridge under the Bat-computer gave him the energy to transform Bruce’s robe into the worn rags of Matches. His eyes noticed every little detail while doing so: There was a sword in the weapon rags that Batman was sure belonged to Damian, a forgotten coffee tray by the showers, marks on the floor that indicated that the giant dinosaur had existed here but no longer did for reasons unknown.

Batman had a mystery to solve when he came back here but for now it had to wait. It was far more important to figure out what Black Mask, the Joker, Ra’s al’Ghul and the Court planned. What horrid plan they cooked up that needed all of them to work together. What chaos they planned to rain onto the city.

Not his city, but close enough.

Matches knew this part of town, and how could he not? He had grown up on the docks after all, had learned how to deliver goods and drugs before he could write. Bars like the one in front of him were nothing new. Nothing exciting. And still his heart was beating fast, his palms sweaty.

He pushed the door open, only to reveal a seedy room full of seedy people getting drunk. No sign of any of the marks. No sign of the crooks he was looking for. But that had to be expected. High ranked criminals like these rarely met out in the open. Matches would have to ask the bartender, maybe make some money talk.

On his way to the counter stares started to follow him. He seemed to be well known and if Batman was correctly reading them, these were looks of respect. He didn’t like it. Matches was a mole, a thief, a lowlife criminal, nothing other crooks admired. Nobody to respect. But when he reached the bar the person behind it only sent him one look before motioning for him to step through the Personal Only door.

“You’re late. Good luck, buddy”

Well, it appeared that the marks were waiting for him. Matches stepped through the door into a cramped and dark hallway. At least it was no longer loud, the voices of the drunk falling away with every step he took. The hallways seemed to go on forever, turning and twisting and Matches was starting to get anxious. This was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

A slight change in the atmosphere was all that warned Batman before a ninja appeared in front of him. That warning was enough for Batman to reign his violent reaction in and for Matches to do nothing. The darkly dressed person signed something to an assailant he hadn’t yet noticed and moments later a classy thug joined the ninja. Both of them searched Matches’ body with their eyes before the thug finally spoke:

“You are late. Standard procedure: We search you; you don’t do anything, you live”

Matches could only nod. What else was there to do? Four hands started roaming his body, strategically searching every place for a weapon. They were good. If he hadn’t been Batman they would have found his hidden gear, sewn into the ill-fitting suit of Matches Malone, but as it were they only found the decoys: The pistole Batman had hated to take with him, two sets of lockpicks, and a package of good cigars.

“Clean. The bosses are ready to see you now”

“Thanks. Good Evenin’”

Matches was nervous, spiders crawling up and down his arms and legs. Batman, on the other hand, was curious. Apparently the four of them working together was nothing new. Apparently, Matches met with them regularly. Apparently, none of this was news to Other Bruce.

He stepped through the door that only seemed to appear after he had been given the okay. An optical illusion or probably a trick door like the ones used in circuses and amusement parks.

What greeted him on the other side made him stop. He knew, of course. He had read the files and yet it was something else entirely to see it in the flesh. To see his sons perverted like this.

They were seated behind a round table, fully dressed in their respective gear, the only light in the room barely illuminating their faces. There was a lone seat on the other side of the table and Matches feared that he was the one who would be forced to sit down on it. He really didn’t want to.

But crossing the room in the stifling silence with tension so strong one could cut it, gave Batman the time to study his opponents. His kids.

Jason and Damian were the ones sitting next to each other in the center of the wall they presented. Dick to Damian’s left and Tim at Jason’s side. The red skull mask obscured Jason’s expression or age but if Batman was right the Red Mask was slowly nearing his thirties while Damian, dressed in an expensive gown, hadn’t yet reached twenty. Both of them were calm in the way panthers were calm, or alligators, large predators that knew their prey wouldn’t be able to escape so there was no need to hurry. 

Tim was the exact opposite. His eyes were flying across the room, never staying on one object too long, nothing ever capable of holding his attention for any amount of time. And still, Batman could see cunning and intelligence in his eyes behind the crazy and the face paint. There was no way to tell his age, every reminder of human nature burned away by the pain of becoming some version of the Joker, but Batman knew that he had to be 24 or maybe 25. And yet he had never really grown up.

And neither had Dick. The man, boy, hadn’t aged a day past eighteen, the age Batman could reasonable guess the Court had decided to turn their Talon into an undead assassin forever frozen in time. Dick didn’t move like Tim, he wasn’t even still like Damian and Jason were, no he just did absolutely nothing. Batman couldn’t see his face, hidden away by those horrid white masks the Court favored, but his body was absolutely void of any movement. No breathing, no twitching, no nervous ticks. It didn’t feel like his son. None of them did.

Matches sat down on the prepared chair.

What was the next move? Batman evaluated his choices, the possible ways to continue this conversation, ways in which he might ensure his survival, when Jason spoke up:

“You can go. This is a private matter and we are capable of protecting ourselves.”

He hadn’t been talking to Matches, instead dismissing the guards positioned by the door, and yet Matches had startled. He knew that Jason was the one behind the mask, knew that this was his son and not some Roman Sionis knock-off, and still hearing the voice had caught him off guard. By the looks Damian and Tim were sending him his reaction had not gone unnoticed. Batman had to be better than this.

The terse silence stretched until the last guard had left and closed the door behind them. Matches felt like he had been caught in a staring match without knowing the stakes. It didn’t get any better when Damian finally broke the silence:

“Father, I would say it is good to see you, but that would be a lie. Why have you asked for this meeting?”

Huh, so Other Batman was involved in whatever was going on. And all of them knew just who Matches was. Maybe that meant Matches was no longer needed. This was a case for Batman. And Batman it was when he spoke next:

“Your movements in the last few weeks have been suspicious. What have you been planning?”

That made Damian recoil. He certainly hadn’t counted on this answer and judging by the frantic looks Jason and Tim shared, neither had them. Did Batman just make a mistake? Had ~~be~~ he miscalculated? But no, the surprise on Damian’s face read as the surprise of someone who had counted on the other person making a mistake. And maybe Other Batman had made that mistake, but this one didn’t.

“Hah, so you’re not as dumb as you look, old man. You might even learn a new trick or two in your old age.”

Jason. Batman could hear the hatred and pain in his voice. The hurt. But why? Why did Damian call him Father if he was the next Demon’s Head? Why was he Jason’s ‘old man’ when they had never met before? Batman was not the one in control and that frightened him. He was the one without information rushing into a situation unprepared just because his dear ones were involved. A rookie mistake. A failing, he had personally trained out of all of his children. But apparently, he himself had never learned. 

“But let me tell you something: We have been working together because of reasons, reasons you don’t need to know. Isn’t that right?”

At that Dick and Damian nodded. Tim, it appeared, hadn’t been listening instead choosing to stare at Batman. It was unsettling.

“You’re not Bruce, are you? Wow. Beautiful. We get together for _once_ to kill the fucking Batman and it isn’t even the real one! Hah! What a fucking Joke! Ha! **Ha**! HA!”

Tim switched from mindless staring into maniacal laughter and yelling in a matter of moments. All of them – even Dick – recoiled at the sudden burst of noise. For a moment all of them could only look at Tim before Batman realized what exactly Tim had said. They wanted to kill him? Of course, they wanted to do that. He was Batman and they were Rogues. But how could Tim possibly know that Bruce wasn’t the Batman they knew?

At least Batman wasn’t the only one not believing Tim.

“Cut it out, Drake, now is not the time for one of your episodes. We have business to attend to that has nothing to do with killing you Batman, I assure you.”

Batman wasn’t so sure about that. There had definitely been truth in the words spoken by Tim. Even if it was probably hidden by multiple red herrings and wrong leads. And Batman had never heard Damian sound so insincere as when he claimed that he didn’t want to harm Batman just now.

They had agreed to this meeting to assassinate him. And he had gone into the trap like an idiot without a plan.

The only question remaining was, why the Other Batman had wanted this meeting in the first place. Why they were meeting at all. Not that Batman had a chance to figure it out right now.

“Small Joker is right. Batman not Dad.”

Dick’s voice was rough from disuse and his sentences sounded stilted in a way that broke Bruce’s heart. The thing that hurt even more was the soft tone of his voice when Dick called him Dad.

“Of course, Batman is not Dad! We talked about this Talon: Fucking Batman isn’t your father. For fucks sake! He is an asshole, that’s what he is!”

As organized and dangerous the lot of them had seemed when Batman first went into the room as fast they dismantled themselves. Jason had turned against Dick, calling him out, hiding his hurt and pain behind a wall of fast anger. Tim had not yet stopped giggling, getting louder only to stare at Bruce before calming down for a few moments. The only one who still seemed to be somewhat handling his temper was Damian.

“Batman is Dad! Not this one, but Batman is Talon’s Dad!”

“No! He isn’t! He’s a psychopath who hurt you! Just fucking deal with it already!”

“That is not real Bruce! Hah! Oh God! I could never come up with something so cruel. Ha. **Ha**! HA! Live is just one fucking tragedy after the other!”

“The Court of Owls sentenced you to die, Red Mask”

“Stop saying that whenever someone pisses you off, you brain-dead zombie!”

Batman could do nothing, Bruce was lost. The implications of the things thrown around were horrible at best, turning Bruce’s stomach inside out. He hadn’t had any control over the situation before, but he certainly lost even the chance of gaining some the moment the yelling started. They were awfully close to tearing each others’ throats out and Bruce had no idea what he should do if it actually came down to that. What he could do.

Luckily, Damian was ready to step up and calm down the situation:

“Shut the fuck up! Calm down, sit your asses back down, and stop fucking laughing, Drake. Don’t you see how you’re playing into his hands? How this is exactly what he wanted? Destabilizing us so we wouldn’t be able to rebel? Creating friction to make alliances near impossible? This is Father’s ploy! His plan all along!”

Okay, maybe not calm down. But everyone was sitting down again at least. Batman didn’t know which course of action he had to follow, what the rules of this universe where – because he didn’t do his research, idiotically – but he knew that he wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know just what horrid things his sons had implied. Maybe, what he did next was dumb. Maybe it was dangerous and unnecessarily confrontational, but it was the only way Batman could even begin to gain a glimpse of control:

“I am not your Bruce. Or your Batman.”

All of them focused on him now, staring at him, before Tim broke away to shower himself in praise. Dick had to be happy too, but there was no way to tell with his mask and the unsettling stillness of his body.

“Bullshit. It’s him! You’re him! Don’t even try to talk your way out of your own fucking mess!”

Jason was still angry. Damian, too. And Batman could see the signs, the little breadcrumbs thrown in front of his feet, telling a story that made it clear as day that all of them had the right to be furious with him. No. With Other Bruce.

“It’s alright, Jason. Just… I come from a different Universe. I am Batman there, but I would imagine a quite different one. And-“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Jason had pulled a gun. It was aimed directly at Bruce’s head and for a moment Bruce was back in that damp alley their first confrontation as Batman and Red Hood had taken place in. They had a history with guns, both of them separately and together. Batman hadn’t counted on Jason to be even more unstable than the one at home had been. But, of course, he was. Fucking Roman Sionis had raised him. Batman had miscalculated once again.

Before Jason could pull the trigger however, Dick involved himself in the action. His hand grabbed the Glock, pulled it towards himself. His other arm came down with a force, and if Bruce saw correctly, he was performing a nerve strike at the base of Jason’s mask. But it was already to late: Jason had pulled the trigger and a bullet lodged itself into Dick’s stomach.

“No!”

The yell had torn itself free from Bruce’s throat without his consent. Dick turned around to stare at him and Bruce realized that a bullet would do no harm, could no longer do any harm, since his boy was dead. Since this was a reanimated corpse playing at being Dick Grayson.

All of them were looking at him, actually. Even Damian, who had seen partial to not involving himself into the action, and Tim, who had still been too elated over Bruce’s confession to pay the chaos any mind. The thing was, Bruce was looking back. And he saw Jason’s heaving chest, the surprise in Damian’s eyes, the shock in the way Dick stood, and the pain in Tim’s balled fists.

He saw how much they hurt, and he knew that they were criminals. But he also knew that they were his sons. And that whatever Other Batman had done, had hurt them horribly. Had twisted them. Had made them this fucked-up version of themselves that Bruce had never wanted to meet.

“Well, I stand corrected, it seems. You are not Father.”

A simple ‘No’, a simple show of concern had been enough to prove that he was someone else.

“Thank you! Finally! I WAS RIGHT!”

“Sit your fucking ass down, JJ.”

Jason was still staring at Bruce, contemplating the implied, the truth. It was clear as day that he had also realized that Bruce was not the one they knew but it took him a bit longer to grapple with than the others.

“But why? Ain’t this just beautiful? A different Bruce! The plan had changed! The game is afoot!”

It hurt to look at Tim for any amount of time. This was his son and he had been turned into Bruce’s greatest enemy, his nightmare. Tim managed to be somehow even more flighty than the Joker and more logical at once. This was still Timothy Drake, child genius.

The room calmed down, almost everyone ignoring Tim’s words once again. The man in question didn’t even react to being sidelined, instead he jumped over the table and got uncomfortably close to Bruce’s face. He was pretty sure that neither of them would kill him anymore. They had more important things to worry about now. More interesting things. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from flinching.

“What are you doing?”

“I am looking at you, dumbass. This is our B’s body, right? Wow! Hah! Beautiful--- Imagine all the things we could do! The hurt! The pain! THE REVENGE!”

This time it was out of self-preservation when Bruce flinched back. Tim had switched in the middle of his sentence, suddenly pulling a knife out of his horrid purple suit. Apparently Batman had been wrong in his assessment. Damian was with them in seconds, restraining Tim in a much more friendly manner than Dick had done with Jason minutes ago. But then again, Tim was frail looking and not capable of healing himself.

“Drake. Get yourself under control! This is not the time to lose it!”

“What time is it then, Ra’s?”

Tim seemed to be satisfactorily chastised, which apparently told Jason that he could take back center stage. The man was still rubbing the spot that Dick hit, a pissed off tilt to his voice. Bruce would really appreciate it if he could see all of their faces.

“Why don’t we ask him? What are you here to do Fake Batman?”

Bruce could do nothing to stop the sigh that wanted to escape him. It was almost impossible to have some sort of conversation because all their personalities were like thorns in each other’s side. And hadn’t Damian implied that that had been on purpose? That all of them were made that way? It would at least explain much of the last hour. And some part of Bruce was also acknowledging that it was a good plan. Divide and conquer. Divide and destroy the opposition.

Bruce was sick of this version of himself and he didn’t even know him yet.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I was working on a case about strange disappearances and psychedelic drugs when I got hit by a weapon of unknown origin and woke up here. Or more importantly back in the Manor.”

For once in his life Bruce decided to go with the honest answer. These people deserved to hear Bruce say the truth.

Damian motioned for him to go on:

“I did some research and came to the conclusion that it was probably magical in nature. And then I got the alert for the meeting here and I had to check it out.”

“Why?”

For the first time in what seemed like ages Dick said something. Bruce only spared a glance at the blank white owl mask before he continued:

“In my world, you are Batman’s partners. My partners.”

All four of them recoiled.

“We fight crime together, you are heroes. You are my sons. And when I got here and saw… your situations, I had to come and look for myself. I needed to know that the data on the Bat-computer was correct.”

He could see the disbelieve in their faces, their eyes, their stances. And if he was correct about the things his mind had deducted, he could understand their hesitation completely.

For some reason Dick seemed to be the one who had the least problems with Bruce’s statement:

“Bat-computer? Only Talon ever called them that. You really are Talon’s Dad?”

So, it was true. Other Bruce had taken each of them home. Before he made sure Talon would reign the Court Dick had destroyed the chandelier and filled the halls with laughter. Before the Black Mask Jason had known a home. Bruce didn’t know what Tim’s story was or Damian’s, but their origins, written down in official files, were probably just as fake as the ones in Dick’s and Jason’s.

His heart bled with the desperation he could hear in Dick’s voice. There was such a strong need for validation, for love. The fact that Dick called him Dad, an honorific Bruce had never quite managed to earn in his own world, made it only so much worse. This Dick had loved Bruce like a father, this Dick had been ready to start his family anew with Other Bruce and the man had taken that devotion, that trust and turned a (his?) child into a weapon.

Bruce wanted to throw up.

“Yes. I am. My Talon is still called Dick. He likes to tease me and to look after his little siblings. He is the one everyone counts on to help them, save them. Everyone loves him and he loves them.”

There were probably tears running down his face, Matches’ face, but Bruce couldn’t care, because his sons stared at him as if he had grown another head. This was new for them. This was not how they had thought they would spend the day.

“Oh! Oh! Please, do me! I want to know what I do! Do I make things explode? Is there death following me? Mayhem?”

Tim sounded full of glee, but Bruce knew better. He knew that the slight hunch in his shoulders spoke of nervousness, that the fidgeting was only partly because of Joker Venom and more due to the fear of rejection. Whatever Other Bruce had done destroyed these kids.

“Only when it comes to harmless pranks. My Tim loves coffee and computers and yearning after his best friends. He… he is the best detective that I know, even better than me. And he is dedicated, brave, a good friend. A good son.”

Had he ever even directed these words at his own children? When had he last told Tim that he loved him? Dick, that he needed him? Jason, that he worried about him? Damian, that he was enough?

Bruce couldn’t remember.

Returning to the moment showed him that this Tim had no idea how to react. His face was twitching, and he didn’t seem to know if he should cry or laugh. He did both. It was neither a pretty nor a happy sight. But what should Bruce do? It wasn’t his place to comfort Joker Junior. And the others didn’t seem inclined to do so either.

“What the Fuck, asshole? You gonna tell me what an angel I am, now? How this was all some dupe so you can feel better and fuck off to where you belong?”

Jason had a point.

“I would hope not so. But I just don’t know. I know my Jason, however. I know that violence isn’t foreign to you. That you love literature and good gin. I know, that even though my Jason is very far removed from being an angel, he is miles away from being a monster. And that he is still part of the family, if he wants to or not.”

He _did_ feel better. These were words that should be heard by a different set of children, and yet just knowing that they had connected, that other versions of the same person had listened to them, soothed his nerves.

But Jason was right. Him preaching about his own beautiful universe was both untrue and cruel. The question remained, however: What was he supposed to do?

“This is all very nice, Batman, but I do believe that we are caught in a serious and complicated situation.”

Damian. Bruce had the vague feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate some nice words and a verbal hug like the others had. Even though Bruce had some to spare. But one look at Damian’s stern gaze and the different stages of confusion, hurt and pride portrayed by the others, told him that it was not worth to risk it.

“Because as you know, we did plan on killing Father today. Had been doing so for months when he requested this meeting. And now you know of our plan. You can warn him. You could destroy everything we’ve worked for.”

There seemed to be honest despair in Damian’s voice when he explained why Bruce had to die. And from their perspective he could understand it. He really could. But he wouldn’t die. Not today.

“I am sure we can figure something out.”

“Maybe I don’t want to figure something out.”

“No. Let him talk”

Help came from the least expected corner: Jason. The man had his arms crossed, everything about him screamed _Defensive_ , but if Bruce was still able to read his son, it also said _Reluctant Agreement_. Damian seemed to see what Bruce was seeing. He signaled with a curt nod that Bruce was allowed to continue – for now.

“This could be an opportunity. I could try and help you – get you out of your situation. I could make sure that the world realizes what this Batman has done, I could-“

“You don’t know what Father has done to us. You do not know what he made us do. And you have no control over our situation – or the kind of retribution we crave.”

Damian might have been willing to listen, but Bruce had chosen the wrong words. Where earlier Damian had sounded like himself if slightly older and more tired, he now sounded like Ra’s al’Ghul. Like the Demon’s Head. And Bruce didn’t dare to interrupt. He could fight but he never wanted to learn if he could win against the four deadly versions of his sons.

“Do you want to know what he did? Do you?”

He no longer did. Bruce nodded anyways.

“Bruce Wayne, Father, took each and every one of us while we were vulnerable, while we needed him the most. He took us and told us of his love, his care, his trust. And when the time came, he told us to follow his lead, to be brave, to just complete that one challenge. But after the first challenge came a second one. And then another. And another. Until we would do anything for a word of approval. For a pat on the back. And that was when he struck.”

The horrible thing was that Bruce understood. He knew how Other Bruce had come to this conclusion, knew what had been going on in Batman’s mind. Because he had also thought about it. He had asked himself how far he was willing to go.

“He told little Dickie over here, that the Court was a pest to this hole of a city and that they wanted him. He told him to always follow his command, made him the perfect little soldier, the perfect little toy. And when Dickie was twelve, he sold him to the Court, let them make him their Talon. Let them twist and turn this child until only an assassin was left. Only two commands were really left in Talon’s head: Serve the Court and please his Master Bruce. And he did the latter by gaining control of the first.”

Dick hadn’t reacted whatsoever while the tale was recounted. The only sign that he was listening were the slight twitches when the word Talon was said. Bruce didn’t want to think about a world in which he had done that – didn’t want to think of a world in which they had found the connection between the Court and Dick so much earlier than they had in his.

“And look at him: Isn’t he just the perfect toy? Isn’t that right, Talon?”

This time Dick turned to look at Damien when his name was said, but Bruce was unable to tell if it was annoyance or blind obedience coloring his movements.

“We still haven’t really worked out how to stop him from being this protective of Father. But trauma takes time to heal, I guess. And a working brain.”

It was scathing, it was hurtful, it was… Dick didn’t even flinch.

Bruce couldn’t match this version of his son with the one at home. His Dick was loud and loving and clever and caring and painstakingly independent. This one had none of these qualities. Because Other Bruce had made sure that there would be nothing left in Dick that could rebel.

He had to swallow down the bile. 

“But Talon isn’t the only actor in this grandiose stage play Father had created: No, Jason Todd was next. A street rat, intelligent but feisty. Batman had just implemented his first soldier in the ranks of his enemies, and it was going great. The experiment had worked, time for phase two: Black Mask. When Father saw Todd, he knew that Black Mask would see what he was seeing. He took him to the Cave. Trained him, made him his _son_ , hah, without ever telling him what he was actually there for. And when the time was right, he told him of his plan to take down Black Mask, made sure to let Jason be the one to suggest going undercover indefinitely.”

Jason wouldn’t look at him. He was staring at the door, probably wishing to be anywhere but here. Damian wasn’t holding back, hurting his siblings just as much as he was trying to hurt Bruce.

“His death derailed things for a bit, but luckily for Father, Todd was more than ready to commit violence in the name of the Mask after he came back. Father didn’t have to break him in manually.”

“Fuck you too, brat!”

“Always so eloquent. Well, Todd did what he does best: He created chaos, killed his dear old sugar daddy, and went right back to kissing Father’s ass. Until recently, that is.”

The implications were clear as day. And the bitter silence by Jason, who wasn’t one to stand by and be insulted, only strengthened this horrid truth.

Bruce would do anything to make sure that Other Bruce couldn’t harm them anymore.

“But let us not forget dear Timothy Drake.”

There was glee in Damian’s voice when they reached Tim. Cold, cruel glee. None of them were good people and yet they hadn’t deserved what happened to them. Nobody deserved to suffer like they had.

“Dear Timothy got curious about his neighbor, about the Grayson boy that had been taken in, and then suddenly vanished. When he found out that Bruce Wayne was Batman, he lost it. It was his favorite superhero after all. And Father was investigating the Joker when Drake knocked on his door, asking all the right questions. All the wrong ones. Poor Timmy, his parents didn’t love him, and Father didn’t either, but it came closer than anything he had ever known before. It was easy for Father to ask for proof of loyalty. It was even easier for Timothy to provide it. And when Father asked Timothy to investigate the Joker, Timmy went.”

He couldn’t listen to this anymore. He had to listen to this.

Tim had gone silent, maybe for the first time since Bruce had entered the room. Bruce hadn’t realized at first that the constant background noise of Tim twitching, twisting, whistling, and giggling had suddenly stopped. Looking at him now, all serious and quiet, he almost reminded Bruce of the son he had at home. Of the tired teenager who had one crush after the other and saved the world every second Saturday. But it wasn’t that Tim that sat in front of him. No, it was the Joker version slowly falling apart.

“And Timmy got back, but the Joker had had fun with him. Turned him upside down, made him taste the crazy juices. It could have been reversed. Timothy could have been saved. But Father wanted another player on the field. Say, Drake, how easy was it for him to lie to you about how much he loved you. About how much your sacrifice, you going back to that monster, would mean to him, to Gotham?”

“You are no fun at all, Demon Brat.”

“He went. Of course, he did. And the Joker had even more fun with him. And when Father told him to finally rid this city of that clown Timothy didn’t even hesitate. He was no longer capable of it. Instead another crazy clown was born, one Father could control. All of that only because little Timmy wanted Daddy to love him.”

Some part of Bruce was bemused by the fact that even across universes the insults Tim and Damian spat at each other stayed the same, but most of him was just grieving for these children. Damian was vicious, tearing into each and every one of them and yet none of them fought back. All of them too used to being beaten and abused. All of them too used to the feeling of doing anything for even the slightest grain of approval, of love.

Did his own children feel like this? Did they share these insecurities? Probably. Just not ~~in~~ with this intensity.

“And you?”

“And me? Oh, I was the promised one, the answer to all woes.”

Damian was bitter, hurt, biting. It wasn’t the voice of Ra’s al’Ghul. It was the voice of a Damian Wayne who never got saved. Who never learned how to love.

It was the voice of a possibility Bruce had feared since he learned of Damian’s existence.

“No, Father found me when I was five. He took me with him, made me his heir, promised me his world. All the while he planned my demise. I thought he cared for me. I thought I held space in his heart. But I was just a piece on a chessboard never allowed to play myself. And when I was ten, he ‘lost’ me. Made me go back to Mother, to Grandfather. Let them train me, let them kill me, let them put me back all wrong again.”

Bruce could see the muscles in Damian’s jaw working, either keeping himself from screaming or from laughing. It was a horrible story. All of them were, really.

The thought that Bruce himself had thought about some of these left a sour taste in his mouth. It was only circumstance that kept him from becoming this monster.

“And just like before, when the time was right, when the Demon’s Head was preoccupied, I was ordered to kill. And I did. Still the best day of my life. The memory of running my sword through the body of my oppressor kept me going in some of my darkest times. I had hoped that today I could add another great win, another triumph, to my resume. Another great memory to keep me warm at night.”

There was something twisted in Damian’s smile, something that spoke of trauma, of pain, of a mind broken too often to truly heal completely. His siblings looked similarly worn. Bruce didn’t want to know how he looked. This had cost them, and Bruce was not sure if it was a price worth paying.

How could he tell them that killing Other Bruce would be wrong? That man had destroyed their lives. Had manipulated, tortured, and twisted them. Had made sure that none of them would ever be okay. And yet killing was still wrong. Bruce couldn’t tell them to go ahead, to rid this world of Bruce Wayne. He wouldn’t compromise his values, not even for the victims of his own monstrous mirror image.

It was Jason who asked the question everyone was thinking about:

“What now?”

“We kill him. Obviously.”

“No killing Talon’s Dad.”

“What are we supposed to do then? We are dead the moment we let him live. If you think Father would keep us alive after we even thought about compromising him, you are wrong. We are dead ~~man~~ men walking. Or we kill him. Expose him. Become our own.”

There was value in Damian’s point. But still, Bruce couldn’t let them kill someone while he knew about it.

“Can it just stop? The world is turning, turning, turning, turning, turning, turning-“

“Snap out of it!”

“I was never in it! But I am right! Everything is happening and I don’t care what joke or trap comes next! We spent the evening talking bullshit and to think I broke out of Arkham for this!”

This Tim, this tired shell, was no less intense without the manic energy to keep him going. It was disturbing to see what was left of Batman’s greatest opponent, so desolate, so lost, just sitting at a dirty table in a dingy room behind a seedy bar in a horrible city.

“I am so sorry for what your Batman did to you. I really, really am.”

“But?”

“But I can’t condone killing. It is my one rule. The one above all others. As much as I want you to be able to rid this world of this person calling itself Batman, I can’t let you do it. Not while I know. Not while I could have done something.”

“You really _are_ different, aren’t you?”

Jason had finally taken off his mask and the scars on his face didn’t help make Bruce feel better. They had either come from Other Bruce himself or from Black Mask but either ways Bruce was the one at fault. This Jason was tired, so much was clear, and while the white streak of hair was familiar, the premature lines around his eyes and mouth weren’t. Where Dick probably hadn’t aged at all, Jason seemed to speed through the years at twice the pace.

All of them were so much older than his own children and he wasn’t just talking about their physical ages. They were old in mind. They were ancient.

When the owl mask finally vanished from Dick’s head, Bruce could see it in his yellow eyes too. The Court of Owls might have preserved his body, but they couldn’t keep the minds of their assassins from aging beyond their years. It hurt to see it in the flesh, just how washed out and white the skin of his golden boy looked. Just how dead un-dead really meant.

Bruce chose to look away.

“So, we have to fight you?”

Damian was staring at him. Still angry. Still furious. Still a child, bearing the burdens of a battalion of men.

Bruce knew that Damian still wanted him dead. But he also knew that he wouldn’t give in.

“Yes. Or you walk away. Leave this alone. I won’t help my counterpart, I won’t warn him, and I will do my best for the Justice League to bring him to justice. I won’t leave you to suffer any longer.”

Bruce knew a great many things. He didn’t know if this was enough.

The end of this adventure that threatened to corrode Bruce’s mind came to him while he wandered the silent halls of a Manor untouched by happiness, waiting for sleep.

He hadn’t managed to find Alfred, and his digging into the Oracle matter had only revealed little. Neither Cass nor Steph had tried to contact him. There were great many secrets left and Bruce was too tired to care anymore. He just wanted home. He wanted back to his world in which his children were his kids, in which they were mad at him, but for normal superhero reasons and not the ones he had been forced to confront here.

It started with a tickling sensation at his toes, with a burning sensation in his fingertips, and before he could turn around, before he could yell or even wish for the blessing of death, his world turned white.

He expected to wake up back in the Manor, his Manor, but apparently his guess had been right: Magic was involved.

Because the next thing he knew, white light flooded his senses, made it impossible for him to see anything except the shadow making its way towards him.

It was still far away, and Bruce didn’t know if he was capable of doing anything except wait. But in doing so he found that he was no longer inhabiting a stranger’s body. He could feel his own fatigue lingering at the borders of his mind, ready to return with full force were Bruce to leave this weird magical space.

For once in his life Bruce couldn’t wait for it. Couldn’t wait for the tiredness, the aches, the stiffness. It hadn’t been worth it to find out that being well-rested came with the price of exploiting his sons. None of that world had been worth it.

The shadow had reached him, and Bruce could see that it was Bruce standing in front of him, Other Bruce. The man that was at fault. The perpetrator for crimes unimaginable to humankind. Before his brain could interfere, Brue launched an attack. The problem was, his opponent was equally matched.

One blow was deflected, another one avoided entirely. When Bruce moved towards a flying kick, Other Bruce was already waiting for him with a counter. Their fists met each other, brute force battling for dominance.

It was fruitless. None of them could win, no matter how long they fought. And when Other Bruce stepped back, Bruce didn’t follow, didn’t try to fight him with his fists again. With a few feet distance between them Bruce could see that Other Bruce had a face that seemed younger, fewer lines visible to the naked eye, even though he was older than Bruce currently was. He hadn’t noticed it himself while wearing the body, too preoccupied with larger things, more important things.

Other Bruce was smiling, but he didn’t smile back.

“You must be Bruce Wayne. Your kids told me a whole lot about you”

“Stay the fuck away from my children”

Bruce couldn’t control the anger that seeped into his voice. He didn’t want to either.

“Oh? You’ve got quite the temper there. No wonder they were so positively surprised when I told them how proud of them I am.”

Bruce wanted to throw up. Wanted to strangle the man in front of him. Wanted to plot revenge. Wanted to take back his words towards Damian: This man deserved to die. And yet Bruce knew that he still wouldn’t willingly partake in his murder.

“You bastard. If I find out that you laid hand on one of my kids, I will hunt down your universe and personally drag you back to bring you to justice!”

He was angry. He was acting irrational. He was victim to his emotions, vulnerable to thoughts that would fog his mind in the field. But something told Bruce that this liminal space they were currently occupying wouldn’t let any of them take permanent damage. At least not the physical kind. What happened to his psyche was another matter entirely. 

“But why would I? Aren’t they your kids? Our kids, in a way? I would gain nothing in harming them, would I?”

And that was the point, wasn’t it? Other Bruce was an opportunist, someone who used every situation to maximize his personal gain.

“You hurt your own children. What else am I supposed to think?”

“They were never my children – I cared for them, of course, but I never lied and told them that I am their dad. I was just a mentor.”

Other Bruce was no longer smiling. Instead a frown graced his face and made every line that had previously been molded into being congenial look harsh.

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t discourage Dick from calling you Dad, or Jason and Tim from idolizing you. You liked it, didn’t you? That they called you Dad and loved you even without you ever being a Father to them. You loved how much more easily malleable it made them.”

He had been so caught up in this burning hatred, that Bruce hadn’t realized that the other man had crossed the distance between them. Other Bruce’s hand was at his throat, he was squeezing, the skin rough at the tender flesh of Bruce’s jugular. And even though Bruce could feel the pressure and a remnant of pain, it wasn’t nearly as bad as it would have been in the real world. He let go after only a few seconds, but he didn’t back down:

“I would suggest for you to get down from your high horse, Bruce. Because what you did with these kids was just as calculated and harsh and horrid. Sending a 9-year-old into the city to fight crime? At least I knew that to be undoable. At least they didn’t die on my watch.”

“I am nothing like you.”

_I am too much like you._

“I love my children; I care for them. And, yes, of course, I fuck up. But I am not a bastard twisting innocent children into monsters unable to think for themselves!”

“Is that what you think? Or what you actually represent? I am just wondering, how these children you claim to love can be so starved for affection that they took everything from me that I was willing to give.”

Bruce didn’t want to know. And he knew he would never be able to unlearn what Other Bruce took to telling him:

“Dear Timothy couldn’t stop smiling for days after I told him how much I appreciated his help in the Maroni Case. And Dick? Such a nice boy, shouldering all the emotional labor in the family. He was delighted when I thanked him for being the rock his siblings could count on. Should I continue?”

_No._

“Yes”

His voice had lost all its volume, only a whisper of will left. But he could use this information. Could do better in the future. Could do anything not to become this man.

“Oh, Damian is a precious one, isn’t he? He idolizes you to an unhealthy degree. But it was nice to just spend time together, to just appreciate Damian Wayne drawing animals, instead of Robin slaying foes. There were the girls, of course. I guess, you are not going to tell me how you ensured that they would stay? No? Hadn’t thought so.”

It was sick to realize how good Other Bruce was at manipulating people. Bruce was one of the best and yet he had started this conversation angry, trying to hurt Other Bruce, only for him to listen patiently while Other Bruce cut him with words.

“Jason is a bit of a troublemaker in your world too, isn’t he? But even he had to smile when I told him that the Joker of my world was dead, no longer able to harm anyone.”

“Because you turned a vulnerable child into a toy for that sick bastard to play with. I’m sure Jason would be more than happy to let the Joker live if that meant that Tim didn’t have to suffer like this. But I am sure you didn’t tell him that part.”

Other Bruce only shrugged. He felt no shame in the horrible things he did, too sure that all of them had been for the greater good. For Gotham. And Bruce was once again reminded that he had stood on the same crossroads that Other Bruce had stood at, only to make a different choice. But still, some of these choices had been far too close to the ones Other Bruce had made for Bruce’s comfort.

“I just have one question: What made you look at a small child and think ‘I am going to use you’?”

Bruce just wanted to know. Wanted to understand. Wanted to make sure that his choices could be different ones in the future. Would be different.

“I think my choices are more similar to yours than you’d like to imagine. I looked at the city, at this burning dumpster fire of a hometown, at this thing my parents died for and thought: How far am I willing to go for it? How much of my humanity am I willing to sacrifice for it? And I looked at these children and saw that each and every one of them had the potential for helping me save the city.”

“But you didn’t save it. You didn’t even save them.”

“Didn’t I though? Gotham has lower crime rates than ever. There are only six Rogues left, four of them making sure that the streets listen to their kind of justice. Four of them making sure that the criminals are always too busy fighting each other to really fight the city. You know what happened when the giant earthquake destroyed most of uptown? The government sent help and within a year Gotham was standing again. And flourishing.”

That was what Bruce had feared.

“You may hate my way, but you can’t deny that it’s effective.”

Bruce might be imagining it, but he could swear that he saw something close to sadness cross over the features of Other Bruce. Something close to regret or another human emotion a man like that shouldn’t be capable of feeling.

“So, when I looked them in the eyes, in the faces of these sweet, innocent children and I asked myself these questions my answer was: I am willing to go as far as I need to go. I will become the one to safe this city no matter the personal price.”

“It wasn’t you who paid the price”

“Yes, it was. Because as much as you want to see me as an unfeeling monster, I am human. I loved these kids. Maybe not as my kids, maybe as means to an end, but I did love them. And it hurt to see them go”

“You absolute bastard”

“Don’t hate me because I am willing to do what our parents would have wanted.”

This was sick. Other Bruce was sick. Every bit of information made Bruce want to curl up, to be able to stop listening. Bruce longed to see his kids, to make sure that they were alright. To make sure that they were as far away from this creep as humanly possible. A multiverse suddenly didn’t seem big enough anymore.

“No parent of mine could ever want what you have done”

“You can lie to yourself all you want, but –“

As slow as Other Bruce had appeared in front of him earlier, as fast he began vanishing in front of Bruce’s eyes now. Bruce could feel himself becoming less too, could feel the aches of daily life return to the forefront of his mind. Could feel the barrier that kept him there break.

His last look before he finally – _finally!_ – returned into his own world, to his own children, was of a Bruce Wayne who had done the unimaginable. Of a Bruce Wayne, a Batman, Bruce never wanted to become.

With this last glance Bruce closed his eyes, his thoughts with his children, both versions of them. He just hoped it was enough. He hoped that he had done enough. Helped enough.

He just hoped that he had made the right decision.


End file.
